The Elf-King approaches the table, where his aides have laid out a map of MidEarth.
"The Dark Lord's army continues to advance from the east, your grace," says one of his advisors. "Also, we've received word that the White Wizard may join with the dark one. This could unite the towers before we can destroy the ring of power!"
"How many towers is it this time?" asks the king.
"Fifteen, your grace."
The Elf-King hangs his head, pinching the bridge of his nose, clenching his eyes and sighing heavily.
He reaches for a glass of wine set for him and sips. It is a fine elvish wine, with rustic tannins and flavors of raspberry giving way to white pepper and currant.
"Fifteen Towers," he says to himself. "Okay, I'm going to need about thirty hobbits, seven and a half wizards, roughly eight dwarfs ..."
"... And tree-men, sire?"
The Elf-King throws up his hands in resignation. "Oy vey, the tree-men."